


Life Lessons, or Five times Eliot Spencer learned something from women he was “dating”.

by elzed



Category: Leverage
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-13
Updated: 2010-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzed/pseuds/elzed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot’s learned a lot from the women he’s slept with through the years… (beyond sexual techniques that is)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life Lessons, or Five times Eliot Spencer learned something from women he was “dating”.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: The Two-Horse Job, vague Lost Heir/Mile High

_**1\. Flight attendants carry a spare uniform in their suitcase. Every. Single. Time.**_

According to Eliot’s watch, it’s midnight, which means they’ve been airborne for three hours, and it’s about time to get some shuteye. He’s glad he insisted on first class, not business, because he gets a real bed, some privacy, and the crab soufflé was actually pretty good, which isn’t something he’s ever said before of airplane food.

Also – and this is the clincher – it’s God’s honest truth that the flight attendants are prettier than in coach, at least after a couple of beers. And flirtier, if his exchanges with the blonde that looks after his row are anything to go by.

Speaking of which, she shimmies by with a deliberate swing of the hips, and flashes him a 1,000W smile which brings out her dimples. She reminds him of the cheerleaders he had crushes on in middle school, athletic and sunny and legs up to there. The uniform doesn’t hurt, either.

“Can I get you anything, sir?”

She can’t be more than twenty-five, with exceptionally pert breasts that Eliot would like to get to know better. There’s something about traveling that always makes him horny, which he suspects may have something to do with fleeting encounters and the guaranteed lack of strings. One-night stands and short-term relationships come with the job, but it’s nice to know you’re both on the same wavelength from the outset. Eliot hates disappointing girls.

“Jack Daniels on the rocks would be nice, sweetheart. And it’s Eliot,” he drawls, letting his eyes linger on her figure before looking her in the eye.

She blushes.

“I’m Molly.”

Half an hour later and Molly’s doing more than blushing as he licks a stripe up her inner thigh while she braces herself against the bulkhead. Her lace panties are on the floor, her pencil skirt around her waist, and she’s shaking when he spreads her open with his thumbs and zeroes in on her swollen clit.

She squeaks when she comes and nearly falls over him as her knees give way. Luckily there’s a built-in ledge on the side – first-class restrooms definitely beat coach hands down for a quick fuck, and he should know – onto which he lowers her. She’s looking deliciously hot and inviting, breasts spilling out of her bra and bare from the waist down; it’s only when he starts unbuttoning his pants that he remembers he hasn’t got any condoms on him.

Nor does she, as it turns out, and apparently first-class service doesn’t extend to prophylactics on tap, which considering the hotness of the flight attendants is just short of criminal.

Still, Eliot is nothing if not adaptable, and Molly’s magic fingers are more than up to the job, to the extent that he comes faster than he expected, and all over her navy dress – which in turn triggers entirely unwelcome memories of Monica Lewinsky and Kenneth Starr.

“Whoops. You look a little… rumpled,” he says, slightly embarrassed at his lack of self-control. “I’m sorry...”

She looks down at her stained dress and shrugs. “Don’t worry, I have a spare. It’s company policy.”

He raises an eyebrow and she laughs.

“Spilled drinks and food stains, you doofus! You never travel without a spare.”

As he makes his way back to his seat, sated, Eliot wishes he hadn’t thought of Monica Lewinsky. He hates leaving tracks behind.

_**2\. There’s more to fashion than pretty girls sashaying down the catwalk (although it doesn’t get much better than that).**_

Halfway through Paris Fashion Week, and Eliot is beginning to get bored. He knows more about this year’s key trends than he ever thought he would, and while it’s marginally more interesting to sit through shows when you get what’s going on, he’d still rather be at home watching ESPN.

Sure, he’s been hanging out with a lot of beautiful, if too skinny, girls, and rubbing shoulders backstage with high-flying designers (although if Karl Lagerfeld tries to stroke his ass ever again, he’s getting hit in the face, creative genius or not); but he’s had enough, and the endless post-show parties are driving him crazy.

Another platter of canapés sails past Eliot: salmon eggs on cocktail blinis; miniature crabcakes; tiny cups of flavored jellies; duck confit spring rolls… He’s never seen so much effort put into food that virtually no-one’s going to eat, and snags a couple of appetizers as a courtesy to the caterers. He knows all about the hard work it takes to create those ephemeral mouthfuls.

“Can we go now, Kayleigh?’ he says to the willowy brunette towering above him in her five-inch heels, which he fully intends to make her keep on when they get home and he strips her naked.

She flutters her eyelashes at him.

“But everybody’s here, baby,” she pleads. “Just another half-hour, please?”

He rolls his eyes. This is the third time he’s tried to leave, and he’s no closer to getting out. If he wasn’t a gentleman – whose bag is currently residing in Kayleigh’s apartment – he’d be gone already.

She whispers in his ear.

“I’ll make it worth your while, I promise…”

So he endures another eternity of listening to debates on the merit of empire lines frocks, the return of the maxidress and how a bad neckline kills an outfit.

When they get back to hers, she gives him a private show of her underwear collection paired with her most vertiginous shoes. Unoriginal, perhaps, but Eliot’s got nothing against old-school fantasies.

After all, they call them classics for a reason.

_**3\. It’s possible to fake a brain scan, kind of (and a reminder: women can be very creative at revenge).**_

“So – were you a prankster at med school? Isn’t it part of the whole thing?” Eliot asks, mildly curious and bonelessly relaxed in the post-coital afterglow.

He’s lying across the unmade bed, his head on Edie’s warm firm stomach, listening to the rumble of her voice.

“Not especially. Although there was this one prank we pulled on this guy Todd, when I was in second year, which was awesome. He was such an asshole, he deserved it.”

He cranes his neck and looks up at her. “Tell me more.”

“He used to pick on the first year students – chat up the shy ones, get them into bed and then he’d dump them like wet dishrags. He really treated them like shit. Even the other guys thought he was a total dickwad. So we convinced him he had brain cancer.”

“Whoa. How?”

“We got him a brain scan – pretended it was some kind of practical neurology test – and, you know, cheated.”

“Wait – you can fake a brain scan?”

“Not exactly, but, well – we rigged a second machine and used one of the bodies from anatomy class. We injected some colored fluid into its brain, and it worked. I swear it was the best prank ever. Todd learned his fucking lesson.”

He’s intrigued. You never know when something like this may come in handy.

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. He was a total asshole but he was so freaked by this, I think it made him realize how much everybody hated him.”

Eliot shakes his head. “No, I meant… Oh, never mind.”

He rolls over and grabs hold of her hips, pulls her down towards him and proceeds to work his way up her body with his tongue, paying particular attention to all his favorite places, from the soft underside of her breasts to the taut nipples to the delicate fluttering pulse in her neck.

He makes sure she comes at least twice. He doesn’t want to piss off a woman who’s that creative when it comes to revenge.

_**4\. Given the right incentive, even Hebrew isn’t such a hard language to learn.**_

Ask Eliot what his idea of a break is, and 48 hours honing his hand-to-hand combat skills with ex-military in a resort in upstate New York sounds about right. When he signs up for the weekend advanced Krav Maga course taught by former IDF instructors, he expects to pick up some useful tips, a few bruises and maybe swap war stories over a beer in the evening.

What he doesn’t expect is the hotness of his instructor, a close-cropped, dark-eyed Amazon with the lithe grace of a tiger, whose skills in a fight almost match his. Or the flare of mutual attraction that makes him sign up for a refresher the following week, with extra Hebrew classes attached, just for the fun of it (Zivah teaches Hebrew as a sideline).

Right now he’s struggling to work his way through the days of the week while she kneels at his feet, her mouth stretched around him, her tongue playing lewd games along his cock while she gazes at him through her lashes, impassive.

“Yom rishon, yom sheyni, yom shlishi…”

He falters and feels her teeth scraping lightly, a warning.

“Er… yom revi’i, yom khamishi… yom shishi, yom Shabbat?”

Luckily for him, Zivah clearly believes in instant gratification, because she dips her head and takes him deeper, until he bumps against the back of her throat and stifles a groan. Combat and Hebrew aren’t her only skills, that’s for sure. Later, it will be his turn to return the favor – Eliot’s nothing if not a gentleman. First, he better summon enough brain cells to remember the months of the Jewish calendar, or she won’t let him come.

Honestly, if his teachers in high school had been anything like as good at incentives, he’d probably have gotten into Harvard.

_**5\. Just because she married someone else doesn’t mean she wasn’t in love with you.**_

Aimee’s grip on his shoulder is like a steel vice and her mouth is frantic on his, eight years’ worth of pent-up anger and despair and desire coming to the surface at once, setting him on fire. They’re like two teenagers desperately trying to get off with nowhere to go, so he does the only thing he can think of in his lust-addled brain: hoists her up in his arms and drags her into the stall.

He could lose himself forever in her kisses – already it feels like all that time apart’s a bad dream and they’re back in Willy’s old stables, stealing a moment of passion behind Ray’s back, before she decided to marry him and break Eliot’s heart.

Why did you do it, he wants to ask her, but he already knows the answer. He’s never been the kind to settle down with a wife and kids, and Aimee’s no fool, wasn’t even then. But, God, he’d almost forgotten the chemistry between them as he kicks the stall door shut and pushes her against the wall.

She’s moaning softly into his mouth and he grinds against her, his cock impossibly hard in his pants, her head cradled in his palms as he tries to kiss her into oblivion. He lets go with one hand to pull her shirt off and she yelps as her hair catches in his silver bangles.

“Shhh,” he hisses in her ear, because he’s damned if he wants any of his crew – or, God forbid, Willy – to catch them in the act.

They pull away from each other long enough to unfasten his jeans and for Aimee to get one leg out of hers while he digs for a condom in his pocket – old habits die hard, he thinks, remembering how often they did this in back in the day, and the kick they got of doing it up against the wall, ankle deep in straw, the smell of horses around them. It’s like a feedback loop in his mind, egging him on as he thrusts into Aimee, her long legs wrapped around his waist.

He comes too fast, hips jerking into hers, a million stars exploding behind his eyeballs, and thank god she’s as keyed up as he is because he can feel her clenching in response.

Somewhere deep inside, he tells himself this could be a fresh start, a chance to fix whatever they had between them that was strong enough to survive all this time. But there’s no mistaking the feel of a goodbye fuck.

He just wishes he hadn’t been such a coward then, and that he’d realized that she loved him even when she picked Ray. Took him eight long years for that bit of knowledge to sink in, and damn it if it isn’t too late now.


End file.
